Faking It
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: Five years after the Battle of LA, Illyria decides she needs Spike to teach her a lesson in human sexual tendancies. . . Or maybe just how to squash his pride.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Spike, Illyria, or anything else you recognize from Buffy or Angel the Series. **

**A/N: This is a Spike/Illyria fic, and, I'll warn you, the characters are about ooc (even though the situation is humorous, in my opinion). It was a bit of a challenge set by Patricia de Lioncourt . . . So, this is to amuse her. It's set five years after the end of the Angel series. I hope you enjoy! **

**There's nothing too graphic. However, there is sexual content and some cursing. **

"**Fakin' It"**

There was nothing better than a cold shower to smooth over frustrations. But Spike wasn't much in the mood for pushing his own needs aside. For that reason, the water that hit the back of his neck, rolling down his spine and over the slight roundness of his buttock was scolding hot, enough to make a human scream. The vampire with a soul released a snarl of a grin at the pain it caused, head bowed forward as he braced himself against the tile wall. He reached down, pushing the cheap hotel facet as close to the big red H as it could go, but the water pressure refused to increase.

He'd had a hell of a week, so far, and it was only Wednesday. Requesting a new showerhead was very far down on the list of things he needed to do. A few days ago Red had sent him to pick up an artifact located in the small town of Scottsboro. It wasn't odd for Willow to ask him to do a job for her, so long as she didn't mention it to Angel or Buffy (at Spike's request), but what the powerful Wicca had failed to mention was the fact that it was in the hands of a wealthy southern warlock who wasn't in the mood to sale.

Spike had spent hours of precious nightfall getting cavity searched by the bulky bouncers the magic man called his security only to get a hex and a boot in the arse when he'd asked for the object. Then, right before dawn, he'd ran into a group of bastardized demons who'd mixed with so many races that Spike swore he saw a bit of aardvark in their snouts. For their freak show good looks, they had been damn strong, sending him into a dumpster within two punches. Thankfully, Spike's ward decided to lend a hand near the end of the fight.

_Ward. That's a laugh._

It was odd for the vampire to refer to the God King Illyria as his "ward", but that was the role she played in his life. He was the one who was supposed to keep her from getting in trouble, from letting the world become too small for her. The other term he could use for her would be student. A creature as old as the ages was supposed to learn from a half-breed a little over a century dead—strange but true.

The two made an odd pair, but for the past four years they had been able to resist the urge to kill one another.

_Speakin_' _of the devil's mum,_ Spike thought, turning off the water. He heard the ancient one enter the hotel room, the slam of the door, the squeak of the bed springs as she obviously took a seat. He could almost see those piercing blue orbs staring a hole in the television in front of her.

Four years and the only difference in her was the fact that her haughtiness more often came out as sarcasm when she directed it toward Spike. But she must have held some respect for him, somewhere in that husk, for all the things they'd shared together.

Five years ago, Buffy had appeared as bright as the sun in that dark alley, fighting demons beside her troop of girls. And Spike had been the one to stop them from attacking Illyria (as if they could take her down).

Then they'd won the night and lived happily ever after in a castle by the sea.

_Not bloody likey._

After several arguments (the fist throwing kind), Buffy had decided it best to bring Angel, Spike, and Illyria back to the slayer base for a while. Thing had went ok for a few weeks, aside from the nasty bits everyone was saying about them behind their backs (and toward their fronts in Giles' case). And during that time, Spike had to watch as Buffy sparked with Angel. Again. Their love had never died, and it was hotter than ever now. Eleven months after the Battle of Los Angeles, Willow found a spell that would turn a frog into a prince—the answer to Angel's curse. In the words of Andrew, it was soul glue. To Spike, it was the key to hell.

It was another night before Spike smelled the scent of his grandsire's sex on his beautiful slayer. So he left, with a nod and a handshake and a stowaway smurf. Illyria explained that she did not wish to stay with "the one who smells of molded books", Giles.

"_I would prefer you as my new guide if I can not have Wesley."_

"Always a big softy, that one," Spike smirked, remembering the 'requests' that would follow during his new tutoring duties. For all of her years, Illyria had had a lot to learn about humans and Earth.

_And she still does._

Spike wrapped a towel around his hips, walking out into the bedroom. He stopped after a few steps, looking up. His mouth dropped a bit when he noted the lithe form, lying along 'his' bed. He swallowed, brow raised at the sight of the woman.

Her body was a rolling landscape of tight, subtle curves, held in a red lace panty set. She propped herself up on one elbow, curling brown hair cascading down her chest, resting between her breasts.

"Well, hello there stranger," said a chipper Texan accent. "I've been waiting ages. I thought you'd never get out of that tub."

"You look better in blue, Blue," Spike stated, rolling his eyes at the display.

Automatically, the color of her underwear transformed into navy satin. She let out an innocent laugh.

The vampire snorted. "You know that's not what I meant."

Fred's face was suddenly stiff, eyes furious daggers that had not belonged to the deceased woman. "I would prefer to keep the appearance of the host during this experiment," Illyria stated in a cold voice. "Now. Approach the bed."

Spike blinked. "Excuse me? You are one mad bird if you think I'm going to be a part of your little learning experience."

She cocked her head, a bit of indigo appearing in her irises. "Do you not find this appearance pleasing? I assumed it would be to your taste."

"It's pleasing enough," Spike stated. _A bit more pleasing than I'd like actually._

"Then I request that you teach me. I am your student. Now remove that drape so that I may observe your anatomy." Illyria sat up, legs curled beneath her to watch him.

Spike's hand tightened on the white terrycloth. "No. Illyria, I want you to stop this. Now, why don't you hand me the pants on the floor, and I'll go back in the bathroom while you . . . experiment by yourself."

Illyria glared at him, slinging her feet across the mattress as she bent over to grab his black jean. She stood, walking toward him. The demon stopped five inches from him, staring up into is eyes. In one sudden movement, she lunged forward, wrapping the pants around his elbows, and holding him to the spot.

Spike's eyes widened as she pushed him down onto the bed she had been using the past few evenings, pouncing onto him, holding herself up so that her face levitated only a few inches above his own. "Should I remove the towel for you?" she asked, her voice smooth and mechanic. "Will you not obey me?"

"You're nuts," Spike bit. "Now get off of me, you great blue bird."

He pushed her off onto the other side, but she grabbed hold of the towel around him. "Why do you refuse to teach me these things? Did you not swear to teach me all I would need to know to live amongst humans? Wesley would have. . . ."

"This isn't about teaching you anything!" Spike snapped, struggling to keep himself covered. "And, if you want to know the truth, I don't think Wesley would have liked this situation one bit!"

But suddenly the terry cloth was gone, stripped away and thrown across the room. Illyria stared down at his body, a studious look upon her face. She nodded once, as if for conformation.

"This form does indeed please you. You are lusting after me even as we speak," Illyria noted.

Spike groaned. _This is not the time for my pet snake to chase a mouse! Why the bloody hell didn't I take the COLD shower! _Of course, as far as immoral temptations went, Spike wasn't very picky—or, at least, he hadn't been in the past.

"Oh, shit," he muttered. In frustration, he looked over at Fred's form. "Didn't I tell you to go out and experience this a few weeks back? I sent you off with that bloke from the club."

Sex had come up in the past. Of course, so had the idea of her raising a kitten to learn responsibility but that request had not lasted through the visit to the pet shelter. Spike, assuming she was simply bored, had taken her to a bar for something casual. He hadn't asked questions when she'd came in later that night. Perhaps, in reflection, he should have asked several.

"He was insufficient," Illyria replied. "You are a vampire. Stronger and not unpleasant to my eyes. You will do."

He wanted to argue, honestly he did. But the clever minx beside him was running a hand along his thigh, tenderly, unlike herself. _She's tricking me into this! Damn it! She knows I haven't had a decent shag in months._ And those times over the past few years had been with random young women, no one that he knew.

He found himself pressing his lips against her neck. She was cool to the touch, not unlike a vampire, but he could feel her voice shaking her throat, her body writhing beside him. She wrapped a leg around his back, but he protested, pushing her onto her back and leaning over her, running a hand along her inner though, slowly pathing up to the soft, perfect flesh that satin covered.

She moaned, pushing herself against him, her breasts scraping over his chest. Suddenly they were past lust, into fixation. He rubbed her hard, as hard as he could without bruising and she whimpered. Then the vampire softened his touch back into a circular tease, placing kisses along her collar bone.

She shook, rattling out his name in ecstasy. "More, Spike," she called. And the accent was back. Fred. Fred's voice.

"Stop it," Spike snapped.

"No! Don't stop," she cried. "Please. . . ."

"Stop talking like her," Spike ordered. "It's damn morbid, even for me." He pulled back, staring at her. "I want you to stop faking it. In fact, as happy as junior is at the moment, I won't be half as turned off by veiny blue skin. So, just stop looking like her, and we can get on with it."

Illyria glanced up at him. "Very well," she stated. Her skin melted back into her more natural colors, hair of straight indigo spread out around her. And any clothing she had been wearing disappeared as well, no plum armor taking their place.

The exoticness aroused Spike even more, if that was possible. "Yeah," he whispered. He pressed against her, putting on the needed pressure, hands sliding against her expertly. But she remained still, only moving to accommodate him. Actually, she was now staring at the muted television, watching a cartoon about three foolish boys with the same name. It obviously annoyed her, but she continued to pay no attention to Spike as he ravaged her body.

Spike pushed himself up a bit, looking down at her. "Well, what's wrong with you? Did I mash the off button or something?"

She raised a brow, turning her attention back to the vampire. "You requested that I quit "faking it"."

Spike was silent a moment. Illyria allowed the concept to sink in, and Spike grimaced in anger. "Well, that's a damn fine way to treat a man!" he shouted, quickly rolling off the mattress. "See if I ever do you a favor again!" he snapped, striding back to the backroom in bowlegged fashion. "Faking it, my arse!" he screeched.

_I hate my unlife._

Spike stepped back into the shower, reaching down for the knob and pushing it toward COLD.

Illyria appeared outside the doorway, listening as her guide cursed under the freezing waterfall. A tiny, uncharacteristic smirk appeared on her face. "Interesting observation. Apparently, untruths are preferred during intercourse for both humans and vampires."

She took a step back as a bottle of shampoo flew through the shower curtain, shattering the mirror beside Illyria's head. Spike reached out to give her a very rude gesture to follow the missile.

"Perhaps later," she answered, turning away.


End file.
